Found and Lost
by dammitharad
Summary: "The last time Azelma Thenardier had been to the Café Musain, she'd been trying to save her sister's life. This time, she was trying to save her own." Azelma/Feuilly; sequel to Snakes and Ladders.
1. Help

**Chapter One  
****_Help_**

The last time Azelma Thenardier had been to the Café Musain, she'd been trying to save her sister's life. This time, she was trying to save her own.

Through the front windows of the café, she could see her sister surrounded by the bunch of rich students she called friends. Her sister's head was tipped back in laughter, and she had her hand wrapped up in the hands of the fair-haired, bespectacled man sat beside her. Azelma remembered him – Montparnasse had given him a nickname, the dickhead – from the last time she'd been, remembered how agitated he had got.

It figured they were a couple. Azelma mentally crossed him off her list.

Taking in a deep breath, she hitched her hold-all further up her shoulder and then shoved open the café door. She let the door shut behind her. She hesitated, standing there, fidgeting with the hem of her hooded jacket.

None of them were looking at her; they were too engrossed in whatever chat they were having. She stepped towards them.

"Éponine?" she said, her voice wavering.

It was not actually Éponine who looked up first, but the man holding her hand. Then Éponine looked up. She looked different, and not in a bad way. Her face was fuller, her eyes brighter, her clothes nicer. Some of the happiness that had been in her face when Azelma had first seen her died away once she met Azelma's gaze.

"What are you doing here?" she said. Her hand slipped out of the man's, flexing against her knee.

"I need some help," Azelma said. She adjusted the strap of her bag once more. "Please," she added. Tears burned hot behind her eyes. "You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't need it."

"Sit down," Éponine said, with a sigh. One of her friends, a cheerfully smiling man with cheeky eyes, jumped out of the armchair he'd been sitting on and gestured at it with his arm.

"You can have my seat," he said, his smile warm and encouraging.

Azelma sank into the chair. The cushions were wonderfully soft on her muscles, tense with nerves, and were warmed by the man's body heat. She sat her hold-all on her knee and wrapped her arms around it. "Thanks," she muttered, keeping her eyes down on the bag.

She could feel the eyes of Éponine and her friends burning into her, wanting an explanation. She cleared her throat, preparing to say something, but words failed her. How did she explain this? Her eyes flickered up, and met Éponine's. Éponine's gaze was hard, but not entirely unfriendly. Her teeth were sinking into her lower lip, as if she herself was struggling to refrain from saying something.

It was the fair-haired man holding Éponine's hand who spoke first. "Would you like something to drink?"

Azelma looked at him. "I – I don't have much money," she said, with a shrug. "It's fine." In truth, she was thirsty and starving, and her body betrayed her, her stomach letting out a dissatisfied growl that they all heard. She felt her cheeks flush warm and looked down at her hold-all once more.

"That's not a problem," someone else spoke, the man who had kindly given up his seat. "I'll get you something," he added, with another smile, and then turned towards the counter before she could protest.

"Thank you, Courfeyrac," Éponine said, sitting back in her seat. "When was the last time you ate, Azelma?"

"Oh, um." She jiggled her knee. "I've not really had much time for it."

Éponine let out a little hiss of breath, but didn't say anything. They all sat in a fairly uncomfortable silence until the man – Courfeyrac – returned, with a mug of tea on a tray, along with a huge heap of sugars and sweeteners in little sachets. "I didn't know how you take your tea," he said. "I've also ordered you some soup. Tomato. If you don't like it, then I'm sure..."

"That's fine," she interrupted, a little embarrassed. Courfeyrac set the tray down on the coffee table, and she edged forward in her seat, leaning over her hold-all to tip three of the sachets of sugar into her tea. When she picked up the spoon to stir it, her hands shook. "Thank you," she said, picking up the mug and blowing onto the surface before taking a tiny sip. Not enough milk, not enough sugar, and so hot it burned the surface of her tongue. She grimaced and put the mug back down onto the tray, and busied herself with adding another couple of sachets of sugar to the tea. The way she felt right now, she didn't really give a shit if anyone was judging her for how much sugar she put in her tea.

The waitress came by with her soup in a bowl and a crusty roll of bread on a little plate, a tiny rectangle of salted butter on the side along with a knife. The honest answer to Éponine's earlier question about food would have been she couldn't remember, and she was absolutely starving. She devoured the soup and the bread within minutes, not speaking and barely pausing for breath. She was just licking a smear of butter from her thumb when she realised that they were all still staring at her.

Éponine's eyes were narrowed. "What happened to your face?" she asked.

Azelma's hand twitched, wanting to touch the purple bruise around her left temple, blossoming over her cheekbone. "Dad," she said.

Éponine let out a hiss of breath. "Anyone else?"

"Rest were there," Azelma muttered.

"I'll kill them." Éponine sounded like she meant it, and Azelma felt the tears burning again.

"'Ponine," the bespectacled man said in a soft voice.

"Things got messy," Azelma said.

"Looks like it," Courfeyrac said. He looked kind.

"Thanks for the food," she muttered.

"It's nothing." He waved a hand, and winked. "Trust me, all of us were desperate to put a smile on your pretty face."

Éponine swatted at him. "Courfeyrac," she said, and it sounded almost like a swear word.

"Sorry, sorry," Courfeyrac said, holding up a placating hand. "Time and a place, yeah? I'm Courfeyrac."

"Hi." Azelma didn't really know how to take his comment, so she decided not to mention it.

"So what happened?" Éponine asked. She glanced around. "If you'd rather talk alone, then..."

"Yes," Azelma said, immediately. "I would."

She watched Éponine's hand flex around the bespectacled man's, and then her sister nodded. "Okay," she said. "You can come back to mine with me. It's not far, if you don't mind walking."

"That's fine," Azelma said.

OOO

Éponine's flat was thoroughly modern, all sharp angles and white walls; the sofas were the colour of coal and speckled with white, and they occupied most of the main room. The kitchenette looked a little worse for wear, and there were piles of DVDs, magazines and books everywhere, along with dirty pots and cups on the black coffee table. There was, rather oddly, selection of clays in various different bright colours wrapped up in cling film on top of an off-white mat caked in dried clay.

"What's that about?" Azelma asked, gesturing.

"Oh, I – I have a shop now," Éponine said, shutting the door behind them. "Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?"

"Tea is fine." Azelma processed the words _I have a shop now_. "What kind of shop?"

"Just – a shop," Éponine said. "No big deal – I make jewellery. I, uh, I run it with Cosette."

"Cosette. Right. Was she there today?"

"No, she was out," Éponine said. "She's – a friend."

Azelma sank onto the sofa. They were very comfortable, and quite large, with no decorative cushions to impede Azelma's leaning back on the sofa. She left her hold-all on the floor this time, and linked her fingers together over her lap.

She could hear the sounds of a kettle boiling and a clink of metal against china as Éponine prepared the tea. A few minutes later, and Éponine came into view, carrying two steaming mugs of tea.

Azelma took hers, grateful to have something to hold before she tore all the skin off her thumb. She cradled the mug against her stomach.

"So," Éponine said, briskly, sitting beside her and curling her legs beneath her. "First things first – are you in immediate danger?"

Azelma shook her head. "No."

Éponine visibly relaxed a little, her shoulders sinking downwards. "That's good. So, what happened?"

"You happened." Azelma tapped her thumb against the side of the mug, the heat from the boiling tea stinging her skin when she left it on too long. "After I – well, when Montparnasse and I came here and told everyone that Claquesous had you, things...Went south."

"I can believe that," Éponine said. "But that was months go."

"Yes, well." Azelma chewed on her lower lip. "I had to avoid him for a while, both of us did, and then...Then things just seemed to get worse and worse, Éponine. I couldn't do right for doing wrong, but he was always trying – always trying to get me to prove myself, but nothing was ever good enough. And then..." She sucked in a deep breath. "He started asking me to do things."

"What sort of things?" Éponine leaned towards her coffee table and put her mug on its edge, nudging a pile of DVDs off the surface and onto the floor to make room for her mug.

Azelma looked down at her cup of tea. "He – he wanted me to...Well, you know. For money, and stuff."

Éponine pressed a hand over her face. "I am going to kill him," she said.

"I refused," Azelma said. "I didn't do any of it. But you can only refuse so many times, you know? He really – he really _pushed_ for it. He wouldn't let up. And then he started getting Montparnasse to try and persuade me, and Brujon, and...It was constant. Then..."

She paused, and raised her mug to her mouth. The tea was so hot she couldn't really taste it, and it burned her mouth, but she didn't care. She swallowed, and swiped the back of her other hand over her mouth.

"You don't have to tell me," Éponine said.

"Sorry, I probably made that part sound worse than it was," Azelma said, apologetically. "I meant – then there was an argument, between me and Dad, and...And things got nasty. He..." She gestured to the bruise on her face. "There are more bruises on my stomach and back."

Éponine let out a little hissing noise. "That's when you left?"

"I managed to get out. Like literally, I got to my feet and ran. I'd been staying with Brujon, so I went straight there. Brujon came back, and – and he said Dad was done with me. That if Dad saw me ever again, he'd kill me. Said that I couldn't stay with him anymore. So. Here I am." She let out a chuckle that sounded false to her own ears. "God, it's a mess."

"You did the right thing," Éponine said. "You're out now. As long as you don't go near them again..."

"I don't plan on it," Azelma said. "I have no reason to, not anymore. I liked Brujon, but I couldn't stand Montparnasse, and Brujon wasn't a good enough friend...It's not much of a loss, you know?"

"I do know," Éponine said.

"I – I know things haven't been good between us," Azelma said. "Like, I haven't been very nice to you. And we haven't gotten along in years. I should have listened to you, I know that now, but – but you're my sister, and the whole problem between me and them is because I didn't like how they were treating you, and...It really upset me, thinking that you might get..." She swallowed.

"Thank you for telling them," Éponine said. "I never really got the chance to say it, but, thanks for telling them that I was in danger. You probably saved my life."

"Well, yeah. You're my sister." Azelma bit her lip. "I – I need somewhere to stay."

Éponine's own teeth sank into her lower lip now. "Right."

"Like I said, I was living with Brujon. I've been living out of this bag for months, now," Azelma continued. "And I don't have a job, or anything, but I can get one. I just – I just need somewhere to stay, just till I find my feet. _Please_, Éponine."

Éponine stopped chewing on her lower lip. "I don't have a lot of room," she hedged. "You'd have to stay on the sofa. I think...I think I've got some blankets – I don't have a spare duvet. But one of my friends might be able to rustle something up – Combeferre probably would. I mean, it won't be ideal, but...Yes. You can stay, for a little bit – till you find your feet, as you said."

Azelma put down her mug of tea on top of a magazine and hugged Éponine. At first, her sister was unresponsive, as stiff as a board, but after a few moments she softened and wrapped her arms around Azelma.

"Thank you," Azelma murmured into Éponine's hair.

"It's okay," Éponine said, voice soft and gentle, like Azelma had never heard it before. "It's all going to be okay, I promise."

OOO

Later, once she had finished her tea, Éponine directed Azelma into the bathroom for a shower. Éponine's shower was better than Brujon's, and she kept the water as hot as she could possibly stand it. By the time she climbed out, her skin was bright pink all over and hot to the touch. She dried herself in one of the large purple towels that Éponine had provided for her and unzipped her hold-all to pull out a change of clothes. She slid on clean underwear, the same bra she had been wearing, and then put on some plain grey sweatpants and a dark red vest top. She wrapped her dark hair up in a towel and shoved her dirty clothes back into the hold-all, zipping it up once more.

She paused in front of the mirror above the sink. She swiped her hand over the heavy condensation, water dripping off her palm. Her reflection was somewhat distorted by the drops of water still glistening on the surface of the mirror, but she could see the ugly bruise on her face, bleeding into the soft, clean pink of the rest of her skin.

She gripped the sink with her hands, tight enough that the skin on her knuckles turned yellowy white. The porcelain was cool beneath her hands. For a few moments, she felt like crying, and her stomach churned. She lowered her eyes from her reflection and closed them, taking deep breaths to regain her composure.

After that, she swung her hold-all over her shoulder and left the bathroom into Éponine's bedroom. Éponine's bedroom was just as messy as her living room, with clothes flung all over the floor and the bed unmade and the curtains still drawn over the window, faint light filtering through the gaps hear and there.

She could hear voices now, from beyond the bedroom; Éponine, and a couple of male voices she barely recognised.

"...I couldn't turn her away," she heard Éponine say as she opened the bedroom door.

Éponine stood close to the bespectacled man, who had a worried expression on his face, and behind them hovered a tall, thin man with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She vaguely remembered him being there at the café, although he hadn't spoken at all and had seemed the least interested in her presence. He had a very pretty face, she thought to herself, and then eyed up the rest of him – clothes looked nice – the jeans fitted him well, and the white shirt he wore too, and it all looked well-made to her.

"Azelma, hi," Éponine said, turning around. "This is my boyfriend, Combeferre," she said, reaching out to take the bespectacled man by the hand. "And this is his – _our_ friend, Enjolras."

"Hello, Azelma," Combeferre said politely. He held out his hand, as if she might come over and shake it, but she didn't move towards him. After a heartbeat, he dropped his hand. "Are you feeling a bit better now?"

"Yes, thanks," Azelma said, trying to keep her voice from sounding as crisp as it did.

"Éponine left her phone at the café," Enjolras spoke up. He had a nice voice, too – smooth, clear, authoritative. "We came over to give it back."

"More like snoop," Éponine said, rolling her eyes, but there was affection in her tone. "What are you up to now, then?"

"Courfeyrac wants to do a marathon night," Combeferre said. "Indiana Jones, although there's some debate about the fourth one. We'll probably end up watching it, it's the only one Joly's seen all the way through. Will you be joining us?"

Éponine glanced over her shoulder at Azelma. "Thanks, but we'll stay in tonight," she said.

"You can go, if you want to," Azelma said, taking a step forwards.

"It's fine," Éponine said. "I thought we could get a take away and catch up, if you wanted?"

"Oh," Azelma said. She hadn't really thought about what would happen beyond her shower. "That sounds fine," she said.

"Well, okay," Combeferre said. "But if you change your mind..."

"We know where you are," Éponine said. She rose onto her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to Combeferre's. The kiss lasted longer than Azelma initially anticipated and she had to look away. She looked past them, at Enjolras, who also looked awkward and was staring at the ceiling.

Eventually the couple broke apart. Enjolras cleared his throat.

"Shall we get going?" he said, sounding a tad impatient. Azelma knew how he felt.

"Yeah, sorry," Combeferre said, sounding a tad bewildered.

They said their goodbyes (there was another kiss involved), and then the two men left.

"Sorry about that," Éponine said.

"It's fine." Azelma sat on the sofa. "Combeferre seems nice..."

OOO

It was just after midnight when the sisters decided to call it a night; they had eaten their take away and did watch a film. They had tried to catch up, but the conversation had been a little bit stilted at points and Azelma hadn't really known what to say to her.

"Just let me get some blankets," Éponine said. "I'll put the heating on as well, just in case it'll be cold tonight..."

Éponine disappeared into her bedroom and returned with two tangled blankets, one dark grey and one in plaid, pale pink, green and cream, and she had a pillow tucked under one arm.

"I'm sorry it's not much," Éponine said, dropping the pillow onto the sofa and handing Azelma the blankets.

"It's fine, I appreciate it," Azelma murmured. One of the blankets, the grey one, was very soft and fleecy to the touch, whilst the lighter one was rough and scratchy, itchy over her arms.

Éponine backed away from the sofa, hooking her thumbs into the back of her jeans. She pursed her lips. "Well," she said.

"Goodnight," Azelma said.

"Yeah," Éponine said, with a nod. "Goodnight."

Éponine nodded, took a few steps backward before turning around and disappearing into her bedroom once more; the door shut behind her with a soft click, and Azelma was left alone.

With a sigh, she adjusted the pillow against the arm of the sofa and then got up to switch off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Some pale light filtered in through the kitchen window, and some yellow light showed through the gap between the floor and Éponine's bedroom door. Azelma lay back on the sofa and pulled the softer grey blanket over herself, before putting the itchy one over the top as well. She tucked the grey blanket beneath her feet, and let out another little sigh.

She could hear Éponine moving around in her room, the rustle of bed sheets and then a clicking sound. The strip of yellow light disappeared.

Azelma rolled over, pillowing her head on her hands. Her body was tired, and yet, her mind was racing – memories of yelling and screaming and a fist colliding with the side of her head. She closed her eyes, and prayed that things would look better in the morning.

**A/N: So this is the sequel or spin-off to ****_Snakes and Ladders_****, and as it says in the summary, it will be Azelma/Feuilly. The main bulk of the story has been planned out but the ending just needs sorting out. Also, I just wanted to say that my characterisation of Azelma will become more apparent in the next few chapters – she's quite quiet in this one, for obvious reasons, but my Azelma is actually quite an aggressive character and that will become more obvious as the story goes on.**


	2. Play Nice

**Chapter Two  
****_Play Nice_**

Feuilly raised his hand and knocked on Éponine's front door. As he waited for a response, he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket slightly so that he could see his watch; he had twenty minutes before his shift started.

"Come _on_, Éponine," he murmured under his breath. This was supposed to be a quick trip – he was supposed to be dropping off some business cards that Cosette and Éponine had requested for a craft fair they were doing at the weekend (their first ever). Éponine's flat had been nearer than Cosette's, and it was on the way to his work as well.

Éponine had promised she would be ready, and yet, no one was answering the door. Letting out a little huff of breath, Feuilly knocked on the door again.

He heard a thudding sound from inside the apartment, and then a moment later, the door was flung open.

"_What_?" a voice snapped, a voice that was most definitely _not _Éponine's.

Feuilly looked down. They were shorter than Éponine, this person; a girl, skinny, boxy figure, angular face, a tangle of brown hair a couple of shades lighter than Éponine's, and an ugly, dark bruise marring one side of her face.

She was wearing a dark red vest top, but no pants, just underwear. He had time to see bruises on her stomach where her top had ridden up, but then he cleared his face, averting his eyes.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm here to see Éponine?"

"She's in the shower." The girl turned around and walked away, pulling down her vest top as she walked. He came into the flat, shutting the door behind himself and watching as she climbed onto the sofa and pulled a pair of blankets over herself. She rolled over, facing the back cushions.

"Um," he said. "Do you know how long she'll be?"

He saw her body tense briefly, and then she sat up. She was glaring at him, now. "Not a clue," she said. "Not my problem."

Then she lay back down, still facing away from him.

Feuilly stood there, uncertain. She had more than a passing resemblance to Éponine, so it wasn't hard to work out that she was probably Éponine's sister – he reckoned he'd last seen her in the Café Musain, on the day of Éponine's attack. But she looked familiar for other reasons, now, reasons that he couldn't quite place.

There was also the question of why she was there. He'd only gone away for the weekend, been out of the loop with his friends for the same amount of time, and suddenly the two sisters were reunited?

The door to Éponine's bedroom opened and the woman herself stuck her head out. Her hair was hanging in wet rattails.

"I _thought_ I heard voices," she said. "Just give me a sec."

She disappeared again, and came out a minute later wearing a black dress that she kept on smoothing down.

"Did Azelma let you in?"

_Azelma_, he thought. He remembered that name.

"Yes," he said. "I've got the cards."

"Ah, thanks. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Can't really stay," he said. "I've got to be in work soon."

"Can you two stop talking?" Azelma suddenly said, voice muffled by the cushions. "I'm trying to _sleep_."

"Shut up, Azelma," Éponine said, pleasantly, and then mouthed to Feuilly, "_I'll explain another time_."

Feuilly rooted in his bag for the small cardboard box that contained the business cards. "There you go," he said. "The box isn't sealed, though, so be careful."

Éponine took the box and lifted one of the flaps to look inside. When she saw the cards, she beamed up at him. "Thank you _so_ much," she said. "These are great. Cosette will be so pleased."

"It's no problem," he said, closing his bag. "I tried to follow Grantaire's usual as closely as I could."

"They're great," Éponine repeated. "Speak to Cosette about payment."

"I don't need paying," Feuilly said, edging backwards towards the front door. "Really, I don't mind, you're friends –"

"No," Éponine said. "We're paying you. No arguments. But Cosette is dealing with it." Her eyes swung towards the huddled shape on the sofa. "We _should_ be coming by the Musain tonight, so you could talk to her then."

"I really don't mind," he said, his hand on the door handle.

"Try saying that to Cosette," Éponine said, raising her eyebrows.

"For fuck's sake, _please shut up_," Azelma begged from the sofa, her voice taking on a distinct whining note.

Éponine ignored her. "I'll see you later," she said.

"Yeah, see you." Feuilly nodded at her and left.

OOO

Azelma pressed her hand over the ear that wasn't obscured by the sofa cushions as the door shut behind Éponine's friend. She groaned.

Suddenly, something soft smacked her over the head. She sat up so quickly that her head spun. "What the fuck?" she spat out.

"One rule I insist on if you stay here," Éponine said, glaring around a bead of water dripping from her soaking hair and winding its way over her eyes. "Don't be rude to my friends. Understood?"

"I was _asleep_," Azelma bit out, flopping back on the sofa.

Éponine dropped the cushion she had used to hit Azelma with onto the floor and planted her hands on her hips. "Grow up," she said. "We can't all enjoy lie-ins."

Azelma turned her head to one side to glare at her sister. "I had a rough day yesterday," she pointed out.

Éponine's face softened slightly at those words, and one hand fell away from her hip, making her stance and overall demeanour less severe. "I know," she said. "I'm just saying, though. There's no need to be rude."

"Noted," Azelma said, placing her arm over her eyes. "Now can I _please_ go back to sleep?"

She heard Éponine let out a little sigh, and then the soft sound of her feet padding across the carpet. Éponine's bedroom door clicked shut, and Azelma let out her own sigh of relief now that the room was back to being wonderfully silent.

OOO

It turned out that Éponine's flat was incredibly boring. After sitting through as many hours of daytime television as she could stomach, Azelma found herself wandering the flat. She knew that Éponine would be furious if she found out, but Azelma figured that it didn't matter. Éponine never had to know that Azelma went through her wardrobe, her drawers, looking at her clothes. Azelma had never owned that many clothes in her life, and she was sure there weren't even that many. She felt envious, running her hands over woollen cardigans and soft jersey T-shirts. If she had chosen to turn her back on her father, as Éponine had, would she have had all these things herself? An apartment, more clothes than she needed, an actual decent television that had countless channels, a close circle of friends, an apparently stable boyfriend and her own business?

She liked to think so, but somehow, she doubted it.

By the time Éponine returned from work, Azelma was almost crying with boredom. She never thought she'd be so grateful to see her sister before.

Éponine looked a lot better than she had this morning, her hair dry and the damp patches on her dress from her hair long faded away. She looked tired, though.

"You're not dressed," she said, sounding dismayed.

"Huh? Well, I had no reason to get dressed," Azelma said, propping her feet up on the arm of the chair.

"I thought we could go to the café tonight," Éponine said. "We go most nights. You can meet everyone properly..."

"Sure, whatever." Azelma didn't see a point in arguing.

Éponine stared at her. "So go and get dressed?" she said, slowly. "You can shower, too, if you want."

Azelma waited until Éponine had her back turned before having a cautionary sniff of her armpits. With a groan, she rolled off the sofa. "Won't be long," she said.

Today's shower was shorter than the one she had the day before, mainly because she opted against washing her hair. She dressed in her favourite pair of denim shorts and a long sleeved T-shirt, and dragged Éponine's hairbrush through her tangle of hair, now slightly damp and frizzy from the humidity of the shower.

She emerged to find Éponine flicking through a bridal magazine on the sofas.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Azelma said, nodding at the magazine. It had a beautiful blonde couple on the front, her in flowing white and him in steel grey, gazing at one another with slightly dead eyes in front of a sprawling country home.

Éponine's cheeks went slightly red. "Cosette," she said. "My business partner. She's getting married."

"Ah. So you and Combeferre...?"

"Are _not_," Éponine said, firmly, putting the magazine to one side. "I thought we could eat in the café? I don't mind paying."

"That's fine," Azelma shrugged, secretly wondering how often Éponine cooked for herself. There were unwashed plates on the side next to the sink, ones she had used herself the night before when they got take away, but the rest weren't familiar and there were no actual cooking utensils such as pans amongst them.

Éponine smiled. "Come on, then," she said. "We'll have to walk again, but it's not far."

"Just let me get some things," Azelma said, ducking back into the bedroom to find her hold-all.

Her mobile phone, abandoned since yesterday, had worked its way to the bottom of the bag, obscured by rolled up T-shirts and sweatpants. She hadn't touched it yesterday, hadn't had a need to, but she figured if she was going to spend the evening with Éponine's rich student friends then she'd need some entertainment, even if it was just in the form of Candy Crush.

When she switched it on to check her battery, she found she had five texts, two Facebook messages and a missed call, split evenly between Brujon and Montparnasse. The missed call had occurred just five minutes ago.

She switched the phone off again and made her way back into the living room, where Éponine had donned a jacket and had her keys in her hands.

"You okay?" Éponine said.

Azelma nodded. Just then, her phone began to buzz in her hand, and a high-pitched, jolly techno tune filled the small room.

She glanced at the screen, which was now brightly lit. The phone hadn't been cheap – or it at least shouldn't have been; it was a gift from Montparnasse, with more than shady origins. She highly doubted that its previous owner had given it voluntarily. But she'd quickly made it her own phone, and that had included setting a picture for all of her contacts. Brujon's face filled the screen now, very familiar to her. He'd been drunk and high the night she'd snapped this particular photograph, and it was not a flattering one, with his tongue sticking out and his eyes crossed and his eyebrows raised and his cheeks hollowed. She'd nearly laughed herself silly when she'd seen the resulting photograph and had refused to let him delete it, no matter how hard he'd tried.

She'd wanted a similar picture of Montparnasse, but him being Montparnasse he had a sixth sense when it came to the gaze of a camera and so was always flawless in photographs. He didn't seem physically able to do anything other than stare coolly at a camera, without smiling, a haughty expression on his face that would not have looked out of place in the pages of a glossy magazine.

She cancelled the call, and when she looked up, Éponine had her head cocked to one side and her eyebrows raised. "A friend?" she said.

"None of your business," Azelma said.

"Was it our father?" Éponine pressed. "Or Mont -?"

"Éponine, seriously." Azelma slid her phone into her pocket. "Forget about it. I'm a big girl, I can look after myself."

"Okay." Éponine shrugged. "But let me know if they keep on harassing you."

Azelma rolled her eyes. "Why? What are you going to do?"

"I'd think of something," Éponine said, flatly. "Come on, let's go."

She turned on her heel and walked towards the front door, and Azelma was glad to have the conversation over for now.

OOO

There were less people at the café tonight. Éponine's boyfriend was there, along with the pretty blond one that had come to the flat (she couldn't remember his name at first, but he was introduced again as Enjolras).

Then there was Jehan, a slight man with slightly too large amber eyes and a tangle of pale toffee hair, wearing an oversized greatcoat that swallowed his slender frame. He looked a bit distracted, and was thumbing through three battered looking paperbacks and occasionally attacking them with a yellow highlighter pen, which ended up streaked across his face.

Courfeyrac was the cheerful man who had bought her soup the day before. Tall and lean, he still sported a cheeky smile and a mop of dark brown hair. He gave up his seat for her again, squeezing onto the other sofa between Jehan and Enjolras.

"That used to be my chair," he said to her, as he wriggled down between them, "But it can be yours now."

She didn't answer, because she didn't know how to.

The other one that was there was apparently called Bahorel, a huge man with copper skin and dark eyes. He was so _big_, she thought to herself. He didn't quite fit into the armchair that he occupied. His legs were long and his hands were huge and his shoulders were wide. Under any other circumstances, she might have found him intimidating. His size made her think of Gueulemer, one of her father's old minions, but that impression quickly faded when she saw how easily he joked around with everybody else.

Éponine ordered them food when they arrived – they both opted for paninis, with mozzarella and spicy chicken and pesto smeared on them. Azelma wolfed it down, suddenly hungry. She'd only had the motivation to make herself a few slices of toast at lunch.

By the time she had finished eating (Éponine was such a slow eater), a couple of other people had turned up. One of them was Cosette, Éponine's business partner. Éponine had told them that Cosette had lived in one of the foster homes with them, but Azelma couldn't remember her at all. They'd been so young, and Cosette was so perfect and well put together that Azelma couldn't imagine her living in any of the homes Azelma had lived in growing up.

The other was the man from this morning, the one that had disturbed her sleep. It was for this reason, and that reason alone, that she decided she held a grudge against him. He was tall, almost as tall as Bahorel, but with none of his size; he was so skinny. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair a bright orange and pulled back into a messy ponytail; there was a scruff of hair on his narrow chin, and a pale white scar on his cheek beneath his right eye. When he looked at her, the expression on his face was cautious, as if she was still going to shout at him for waking her up.

That was still an option, she reflected inwardly, because she _did_ hate to be woken up like that.

"In a better mood now?" he asked, after Éponine had introduced him as Feuilly.

"No," she said, bluntly.

"I didn't know you were there," Feuilly said.

She raised her eyebrows. "And? Why would I care about that? You still woke me up."

"Azelma," Éponine said, her tone warning, glaring at her over her panini. "Play nice."

"I am playing nice," Azelma objected.

"Well, I apologise for waking you up," Feuilly said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

She picked up a rocket leaf from the salad on her plate and nibbled on it. "Apology accepted."

"So you're staying with Éponine? I've got that part right?" Feuilly said, putting his fingers together to form a steeple with them.

"Yep."

"And you're her sister," Feuilly continued.

"Yep." Azelma finished chewing on the leaf and swallowed. "Anymore questions?"

"Not really." He lowered his hands to his lap and then scrubbed a hand over his chin. He had skinny fingers, too, she noticed, his knuckles big and obvious. "You're a bit prickly, aren't you?"

"That was a question," she said, flatly.

He squinted at her. "I think I know you," he said, a bit quieter.

"I doubt it." She shrugged.

"I'm sure we've met," he said. "Your face –"

"Looks a lot like Éponine's," she finished for him. "I'm not one of those people who denies they look like their family."

"No, it's not that," he said. He shook his head, ginger ponytail bobbing up and down. He sat back in his chair, one of the other armchairs. He'd actually taken it from Cosette, who had gone to the toilet as he arrived, but when Cosette had come back she'd slotted herself onto the sofa between Courfeyrac and Enjolras without objection. Azelma wondered if anybody else could fit onto that sofa.

"Hmm." She didn't really know what else to say to him.

He snapped his fingers, pointed at her. "I know," he said, then looked like he regretted it. "Ah. It, uh, doesn't matter."

"Huh?" Azelma cocked her head to one side. "What are you on about?"

"I remember where I saw your face," he said. His cheeks were flushing pink. He looked embarrassed, and he pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. "But it doesn't matter."

"No, go on," she said. "Seeing as you made such a fuss about it," she added, rolling her eyes.

"I grew up in care," he said, simply, and he didn't have to say much more, because he'd undoubtedly known Éponine long enough to know her family history.

Something in Azelma's chest twisted. She didn't like talking about her time in care. Too many bad memories, faces she'd rather not think about.

"Right," she said, making the word as short and as clipped as one could manage with only one syllable.

"Like I said, it doesn't matter." Feuilly was now tapping on his knee with his fingers. In the time he'd been sat there, his hands hadn't stopped moving once.

"You're right," she agreed. "It doesn't."

He looked away from her, his finger now drawing circles. A moment later, he joined in with Jehan and Enjolras' debate about some politician or other, and Azelma was left alone with her thoughts, as Courfeyrac was showing Cosette something on his (rather sleek and shiny and probably expensive, she noted) phone, Éponine and Combeferre were being a gooey, sickening couple, and Bahorel appeared to have fallen asleep.

She sighed, stared up at the ceiling, and then slid her hand into her pocket to retrieve her phone. Candy Crush it was then.


	3. Getting Better

**WARNING: Strong language (use of the c word) and violence.**

**Chapter Two**

**_Getting Better_**

Azelma quickly decided that the Café Musain was not really her thing, and neither were Éponine's friends. They were nice enough, but she couldn't talk to them. They talked about politics and soup kitchens and charities and peaceful protests and it was all gibberish to her. When she was around them, she could feel the differences between her and them like it was a physical wall between them. She looked at them and felt something that may or may not have been envy burning inside her, when she saw their pricey belongings and their well-spoken voices and their healthy appearances. For all their talk of _helping the underprivileged_, she could hazard a guess that it was not a world that any of them truly understood.

There were exceptions to this, she reluctantly realised after a few more days of hanging around with them; Bossuet, a bald man in scruffy clothes, never seemed to have money and his phone looked more like a brick than anything else. And then there was Feuilly, who was the only one she could definitely see was like her. It was there sometimes, in the way he looked at the others when they spoke; there was almost this indulgence to his gaze, like he wanted to criticise but didn't have the heart to.

The one who did have the heart to was Grantaire, and he was the only one Azelma found she truly liked. She gathered very quickly that he was quite close to Éponine. He had a thick tangle of black curls that usually looked like it had not been touched with a brush in years, and there was a kind of sickly pallor to his face and dark bruise-like marks beneath his deep-set eyes. She had never seen him without either a bottle of beer or a can of cider in his hands, and his breath often reeked of booze. Sometimes it made her uncomfortably think of Gueulemer, the heaviest drinker of her father's friends, but he was too short in stature to carry the resemblance through. What she knew of him was his mouth, which seemed to be faster than his head, and was often spouting counter arguments to things that the rest of Éponine's friends had to say. More often than not, these arguments were directed solely at the pretty blond one, Enjolras. When Grantaire was having these rants she was reminded more of Montparnasse; they shared a waspishness, she decided, even if Grantaire was more eloquent about it.

The rest of them largely annoyed her, and yet, there was something so strangely _likeable_ about them. Éponine's boyfriend was so calm and soft-spoken it was hard to think anything bad of him; slightly vacant Jehan with his classic literature and terrible clothes was almost too much like a puppy for her to be mean. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were too jolly, even if it sometimes got on her nerves.

Joly was another one – she met him properly a day after the rest. He was a small and slight man with a shock of black hair and hazel eyes. She quickly found he had a habit of telling long, complicated jokes where the punchline was lost in Joly's tendency to break down in laughter halfway through.

His girlfriend Musichetta was not as likeable, Azelma found. She was a tall and elegant woman, towering over her boyfriend. She was not pretty, not in a traditional sense. She had an unusual face, Azelma decided, the nose slightly too large and her mouth too wide. And there was a cool, calculating edge to her eyes whenever she looked at Azelma, but it disappeared when she interacted with anybody else, softening to warm.

Overall, Azelma had a lot of conflicting feelings about Éponine's friends. They could be nice enough; their joking around was amusing, their intentions were well meant, but at the same time all of that grated on her as well. At the same time she found herself thinking that she would rather have them around than the ones she had left behind, Montparnasse and Brujon who changed on a whim. She never knew where she stood with them.

That said, she didn't know where she stood with Éponine's friends, either. But they did try to include her, she supposed, which was nice of them.

She found herself sat at the Musain with Éponine one night, waiting for the rest of them to arrive; she was eating a sandwich Éponine had bought for her, which was slices of thick, almost burnt bacon with wedges of strong brie on brown bread. Éponine was eating soup. They hadn't been speaking, but then Éponine suddenly said, "It's Courfeyrac's birthday on Friday."

"That's nice," Azelma said, through a mouthful of her sandwich.

"We're going out," Éponine continued. "To the Corinth. That's a club. It's in the basement here." She nodded with her head downwards. "Do you want to come? You don't have to, but Courfeyrac told me to ask."

"Do I want to come drinking with you and your friends?" Azelma put down her sandwich. "Like, no offence, but I'm getting fed up of sitting in this place with them."

"Look, Courfeyrac told me to ask," Éponine said. "So I am. If you don't want to, don't bother. I just thought it would be nice, that's all."

Éponine had a lot of ideas she thought would be _nice_, Azelma thought spitefully in her head, but she didn't dare say it out loud. "I'll think about it," she said, grudgingly.

"It'll be just our group," Éponine said, like that made the proposal better. "Courfeyrac _has_ other friends, but they're not invited..."

"Are Courfeyrac's other friends as stuck-up as your lot?" Azelma asked, peeling the crust of the bread away from the sandwich and dropping it on to her plate.

"My friends aren't stuck up," Éponine objected.

"Nah, of course they're not," Azelma said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, stop it." Éponine sounded tired. "I get it. You don't like them. There's no need to be horrible about it."

"I don't not like them," Azelma objected. "They're just, a bit, you know."

"Yeah, I do know, because I felt the same when I first met them, but give them a chance," Éponine said. "They're lovely people. They're like a family to me."

Azelma had felt that way about Montparnasse and Brujon once. She'd had a few more messages and missed calls from both of them in the past few days, but she hadn't returned any.

"I know," she said, in response to Éponine.

"Courfeyrac was just trying to make sure you feel included," Éponine continued. "He likes you."

"I'll think about it," Azelma repeated, and went back to her sandwich.

OOO

There were a lot of things to think about when considering going out with Éponine's friends. Most of them had to do with Azelma herself – her personality, her behaviour, her experiences.

She had never been to the Corinth, but she'd hazard a guess it was a much nicer place than the usual holes that Montparnasse and Brujon dragged her to. Probably nicer than the shit heap her father owned, too. It was hard to imagine a bunch of ratty drug dealers hiding in the shadows of somewhere Éponine's friends went. It was hard to imagine that there was piss on the floor of the toilets, people fucking in the disabled cubicle. It was hard to imagine that a night ended with someone having their face smashed into a pavement outside.

And that went for the people, too. Azelma's past nights out had a formula to them. Drink, drink, drink, until you don't know your name and until you can't see properly. Montparnasse and Brujon used to have a game, as well, where they'd place bets on how long it would take before Azelma would kick off with somebody, or before someone would kick off with her. Most of her nights ended with a split lip and bruises and then projectile vomiting in the back of whatever poor taxi had been lucky enough to drive them home.

Azelma couldn't imagine that getting _that_ drunk was going to be okay with any of them. She couldn't imagine them putting bets on how long it would take her to punch somebody in the face, and she was willing to bet that they had a designated driver amongst their lot rather than taking a taxi.

Azelma thought of all of this in the days leading up to Courfeyrac's birthday, and dodged around questions of whether she'd go or not. By the time it arrived, however, she had made her decision; she would be sensible, for once, not drink as much, and she would go. She would heed Éponine's request for her to be more polite to her friends, just to try and keep the peace a little bit longer.

She told Éponine about it in the morning, because (as usual) Éponine woke her up accidentally on her way out to work. Azelma was huddled in the corner of the sofa, her blankets wrapped around her like armour, as she told her.

"Good," Éponine said, and she smiled, really smiled. "It'll be nice to see you making an effort. We're drinking at Courfeyrac's beforehand, is there anything you want me to pick you up to drink on my way home from the shop?"

Azelma thought about it. Even though she'd been drunk more times than she could count, she'd never really acquired her own personal taste in alcohol. She usually drank whatever Brujon or Montparnasse pushed into her hands; cheap ciders and lagers for the former, and fruity cocktails for the latter.

"I'll have..." Azelma scrunched up her face. "Whatever you're having?"

"Sure," Éponine said, smiling at her still. "I'm really glad you've decided to come, Azelma."

"Mmm," was all Azelma could manage in response.

OOO

Courfeyrac's apartment was nicer than Éponine's, she decided before they had even got through the doors. The whole building was nicer; maybe a bit more old-fashioned, but well looked after, the wealth of its occupants obvious.

Azelma felt a little out of place. She'd never been one for dressing up, and she hadn't seen any reason to put in more effort tonight of all nights, so she was just wearing her plain black shorts and the dressiest vest top she owned (it had a bit of glitter on the front, or at least, it had glitter on it at one point). Éponine had straightened her hair for her, and she'd spent the afternoon trying her best to paint her nails. She'd borrowed a pair of flat black pumps off Éponine, and had staunchly refused to wear heels.

She knew she looked plain compared to Éponine, who was wearing a clingy red dress and had her hair up and sparkly jewellery on and sky high heels that Azelma saw no use for apart from maybe using them to clobber someone around the head in a fight.

She was just musing over how much damage a stiletto heel would do to the back of someone's heads as they waited for Courfeyrac to answer the door.

It wasn't him who answered, though, it was Combeferre, who was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans.

"No shoes in the flat," he said, automatically, as if he'd had to say this lots of times before. "New carpet," he added.

The carpet was green and scratchy, and Azelma personally didn't think it was worth bare feet. She sat on the sofa and drew her legs up underneath her.

More or less everybody else had already arrived. After being sat down for a few minutes, Éponine pushed a glass of orange juice into her hand. She could taste the alcohol the juice had been mixed with, and her discomfort in the situation made her knock it back within minutes. It went straight to her head, making the world spin a little. She barricaded herself in the bathroom for a few moments to remind herself she wasn't supposed to be getting very drunk tonight.

It was a couple of hours before they eventually left for the club. Azelma decided within moments of climbing down the stairs to the basement club that it was a lot more upmarket than the ones she'd frequented with Montparnasse and Brujon. The music was loud, mainly indie stuff with the occasional pop song thrown in. Azelma hadn't drunk enough to feel like dancing (and for that she was proud of herself), so she found herself sat at a table, nursing a glass of vodka and orange, watching the rest of them on the crowded dance floor.

Éponine had begun the night being somewhat considerate of Azelma, but the more she had drank the less concerned she'd become. She was now wound tightly around Combeferre, and both of them were on the happy side of tipsy. Azelma tried hard not to begrudge her that.

She shouldn't have come, she decided, knocking back the dregs of her drink and then standing up. She made her way outside. A man who smelled of a combination of body spray and sweat lurched at her as she walked. "Fancy a dance?" he slurred.

Azelma shoved him away from her, but caught hold of the front of his jacket to yank him a little bit closer to snarl a "fuck off" at him before shoving him again. His foot caught on a plastic cup in a puddle of drink, and he hit the ground like a sack of bricks, spluttering as he went.

Azelma carried on, hurrying up the steps and past the bouncers onto the street outside. The air was frosty against her skin, and for a moment she regretted her choice of clothing. Wrapping her arms around herself, she took a few more steps away from the door of the club. There were people outside, aside from those still queuing to get in; nearly all of them were smoking.

She spotted a familiar blond perched on a bollard. Enjolras sat with his back to the club, a cloud of pale bluish smoke around his head and a cigarette hanging between his fingers.

She considered going over to him, then decided not to. But then he glanced over his shoulder and spotted her. For a moment, she didn't think he'd actually seen her, because his expression didn't change. But then he called out her name.

Groaning internally, she walked over.

"Going home?" he said.

"No," she said. "Needed fresh air."

"Ah." He took a drag on his cigarette, flicked ash onto the pavement.

"What brings you outside?" she asked, sitting on the bollard next to him. It was hard and uncomfortable and she was freezing. Why hadn't she just stayed inside?

He raised his eyebrows, and raised his cigarette. "I can't smoke inside."

"I didn't take you for a smoker."

"You're not the first person to say that," he said. "Clubs aren't really my thing," he added.

He was trying, she realised. He looked uncomfortable at trying to speak to her, and his body was tense, but he was trying hard to be friendly towards her.

"Eh," she said. "This one is a lot nicer than the clubs I'm used to."

"Hm." He flicked more ash. Some of it was caught by the wind, and landed on her shoe. She scuffed it off with her other foot. "Are you all right?" he asked, and then seemed to be vaguely surprised by his own audacity in asking the question.

"Do you mean right now, or...?" She cocked her head to one side.

"In general. How are you finding, you know." He waved a hand. "Living with Éponine..."

"Oh, that. It's, um, good," she said. "Getting better."

She noticed that his eyes were tracking over the almost-faded bruises on her face. There was a grim expression on his face. "Good," he said. "If there's anything you need, you can come to me about it. Any help you might –"

"Thanks," she interrupted, feeling slightly awkward. "I'll, um, bear that in mind?"

"I don't want this to come across as weird, or anything," Enjolras hastened to add. "I'm just, you know –"

She didn't know him well enough but she was sure she'd never heard him sound so inarticulate as he did right then. "You like helping the disadvantaged," she said, rolling her eyes. "I get it."

He crushed the cigarette against the side of the bollard he sat on. "Shall we go back inside?" he suggested, but that was when Courfeyrac came bounding over, followed by Jehan and Grantaire.

"We're going somewhere else!" Courfeyrac announced.

Enjolras sighed. "Where?" he asked.

"The..." Courfeyrac whirled around, to face his current companions. "What's it called?"

"Well, this already sounds like a brilliant idea," Enjolras muttered, pushing off the bollard.

"The Panther Parlour," Jehan said. More of them were emerging from the club now, Bahorel lighting up a cigarette in front, the elegant Musichetta arm in arm with Joly and Bossuet, Éponine and Combeferre hand in hand, and Feuilly bringing up the rear, pale hands raking through his hair.

The name sounded familiar.

"Is it far from here?" Enjolras was asking.

"I know the way," Éponine said. "It's in Irving's."

Azelma knew Irving's, not just because Éponine's shop was there but because she'd been dragged there a couple of times when Montparnasse had some spare cash and wanted to look through one of the vintage stores. She wasn't sure it was that close, but the rest of them were obviously drunk enough that they didn't mind the walk. Once Cosette and her fiancé Marius had come out of the club, they set off in a pack towards the new club.

OOO

The walk to the next club took longer than expected, because Cosette and Éponine had an argument about what turn they should take next and they got lost. It had been Azelma who had righted them, her voice cutting through the bickering like the crack of a whip. Feuilly hadn't been able to miss that the newest member of their group wasn't in the best of moods. She'd had a sour face on her in the club, and that expression only got worse the longer it took them to get to the new place.

He wondered whether she was cold – she wasn't exactly dressed for the night, she had no jacket, and he suspected she hadn't drank enough alcohol to act as a barrier against the elements. He considered offering her his jacket, but Jehan already had and she'd turned him down before he could get the full question out.

The new club meant another line to wait in. It was moving along at a snail's pace, creeping forward every few minutes. Feuilly listened in on the slightly slurred conversation taking place between Courfeyrac and Grantaire about some band Feuilly hadn't heard of, watching Azelma all the while. She was the first of them to join the queue, and lolled against the wall every time they inched forwards. She looked bored out of her mind.

A hand dug into his side. He jerked away. The jab either hurt or tickled, and he wasn't sure which, but he found time to be slightly embarrassed by the inhuman noise that escaped his mouth. "What?" he said, glaring at Bahorel, who was the culprit.

Bahorel was grinning, in that daft drunken way of his, and staring pointedly at Azelma.

"Fuck off," Feuilly grumbled. "I have a girlfriend."

"Ah, yes." Bahorel looped an arm around Feuilly's neck. "_Saint Flo_."

Flo had been his girlfriend for a few months. They were somewhere between serious and casual, and she didn't really like his friends. In fact, sometimes it felt like there wasn't much Flo _did_ like. But he liked her a lot; she was funny, a great cook, and she was pretty. The main issue was the relationship between her and his friends: his friends were his family, after all. She had never openly criticised them, but on the odd occasion she did join them at the café or on a night out, the disapproval was clear in her eyes. He wasn't sure what she disapproved _of_, in particular. He'd thought to ask, but he wasn't sure he was ready to have that conversation just yet.

His friends, for their part, seemed to like Flo. Most of the time. Bahorel, however, had never been particularly good with anyone who could be seen as being a snob, and had quickly given her the nickname _Saint Flo_ in response.

"Don't call her that," he said.

"It's not exactly an insult," Bahorel said, giving him a squeeze.

The group immediately in front of them were granted access to the club, and just after they had gone in a group of girls came out. They were singing at the top of their voices.

Azelma stepped forwards, but the bouncer on the door held up a hand. "Not yet, love," he said.

Azelma fell back against the wall. She twisted her head, looking at them. She caught his eye, and didn't smile.

"You all right?" he asked, shrugging off Bahorel's massive arm.

"Cold," she said, shortly.

"Well, we'll be in soon," he said, in a way that was supposed to be encouraging.

"Hmm," was the response he got, and she turned her body away, leaning her shoulder against the brick wall behind her.

"I don't think she likes you," Bahorel stage-whispered. Feuilly dug his hand into Bahorel's side, and the larger man jumped away, laughing.

"Hey, you."

It was one of the girls who had just spilled out of the club who had spoken. She was tall, broad, with shaggy white-blonde hair and heavy eye make up. She was smoking a skinny hand-rolled cigarette, and she was staring at Azelma.

Azelma didn't seem to hear her. Before Feuilly could alert her that she was being spoken to, the girl lurched forwards, put her hand on Azelma's shoulder. She'd obviously been drinking, because the lurch was a lot heavier than she seemed to anticipate and resulted in her slamming Azelma into the wall.

A string of expletives left Azelma's mouth, ending in a shout of, "_What the fuck_?"

"It's you!" The girl still had hold of Azelma's arm. "'Zelma! I thought it was you!"

Azelma planted her hands on the girl's chest and shoved her backwards. The combination of alcohol and five inch heels should have sent the other girl sprawling, but she managed to keep her balance.

"Don't fucking touch me," Azelma shot back.

"All right, all right," the girl said, holding up her hands. She might have stopped herself from falling, but she'd dropped her cigarette. "No need to be so snappy. _God_." She turned away, and said, under her breath, "_Stupid cunt_."

Azelma shot forwards, one hand knotting in the girl's pale hair and using it to spin her around. The girl let out a shriek. "Excuse me?" Azelma said, letting go of her. "Do you want to say that again?" she shouted.

"Yeah!" The other girl got closer to her, inches apart. "_Cu _ –"

She didn't get to finish her insult, because Azelma had drawn her arm back and punched her in the face. Feuilly was no expert, but it looked like a good, solid punch, right to the nose. This time, the girl was not able to regain her balance; alcohol and stupid heels won, and she went tumbling down.

Her friends all shrieked, and helped her to her feet. The girl jumped on Azelma, slapping her repeatedly in the face, and they both fell to the ground.

Their tussle didn't last particularly long; Bahorel and Feuilly shot forwards to pull them apart. It wasn't by any means an easy task. When they were apart, both girls were breathing heavily. The other girl had opened up a gash on Azelma's forehead.

Bahorel had Azelma, had her arms pinned to her sides. She shoved at him. "Get _off_ me!" she shouted.

Feuilly had the other girl. She wriggled out of his arms, spat the word that had caused the argument at Azelma once more, and then she and her friends staggered off up the street. It sounded like her friends were congratulating her.

By now, the rest of their friends had joined them, and Bahorel decided to let go of Azelma. She sprang away from him, turning in circles, her hands clenched into fists. Her cheeks were bright red, and blood trickled from the cut on her forehead and down the bridge of her nose.

Éponine was the first to react, dragging herself out of Combeferre's grip to stand close to her sister. "What the _fuck_ was that?" she demanded, her voice climbing in volume with every syllable.

"She called me –" Azelma stopped herself, wiped at her face. She winced as her hand met the cut on her head, and blood was smeared over her face, orange and red. "I hate that word," Azelma hissed, through her teeth.

"You can't go starting fights with people because they call you a name!" Éponine shot back.

"If I'd have been Azelma, I'd have punched him," Bahorel chipped in. The glare that Éponine turned on him was pure ice.

"Not helping," Combeferre murmured, his face pinched in a frown.

"To be fair to Azelma, that word is one of the worst in our language, and the history of it –" Enjolras began, but Éponine waved a hand without even looking at him.

"I don't _care_," she said. "Tonight was supposed to be fucking _fun_, Azelma, without you starting fights – it's Courfeyrac's _birthday_ –"

"Hey, I don't care," Courfeyrac said, his grin wide. He winked at Azelma. "I always like a catfight."

Both sisters turned to stare at him. In fact, everybody turned to stare at him. Éponine shook her head. "Dick," she said. The affection was there in the insult, albeit hidden beneath many, many irritated layers.

"Éponine, there's no harm done," Courfeyrac said. "Well, except, obviously, I think Azelma needs cleaning up, but, it's –"

"Don't say it's fine," Éponine bit out. "It's not _fine_. There is nothing _fine_ about punching someone in the face –"

"She grabbed me," Azelma muttered, sullenly.

"I don't care," Éponine said. "You don't start fights, you're not a kid –"

"Éponine," Combeferre said, as Azelma swiped again at the cut on her forehead.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come," Éponine said loudly, speaking over her boyfriend.

Azelma took a step backwards. She flung her hands up, her fingertips stained red. "Happy to leave," she said. "Fuck knows this night has been shit." She spat on the ground, spun on her heel and stomped away, her arms coming up to wrap around herself.

No one moved after her. She was going in the opposite direction to the other girls, which was probably for the best. His heart ached, right then, watching her slight form grow smaller.

His feet were moving before his mind had really made the decision. At the same time, he thought he saw Enjolras twitch, as if he was going to move as well. "I'll go," he said, to no one in particular, and followed her.


	4. Walk Away

**Chapter Four**

**_Walk Away_**

Azelma felt like punching something. Preferably that stupid girl's face, but anyone else's would do, or maybe a wall if necessary. Her body was buzzing with anger; her hands were throbbing from the punches she had managed to get in, and her forehead was stinging from where one of the girl's rings had caught on her face. This whole night had been one huge, massive, shitty _disaster_, and she was so fucking _cold_ to top it all off. She was just resentful: that was the only word for it. Resentful that she'd been pressured into joining a world she didn't feel comfortable in, resentful of that girl for having to say _that word_, resentful of Éponine for expecting her to just take it.

"Azelma!"

Azelma ignored the shout that came from behind her and kept on walking. It was a man's voice, so probably one of Éponine's friends. That was almost strange, and was the main reason she kept on moving; what could they possibly get out of coming after her? In her experience, there was only one thing they _could_ want and they could go fuck themselves if they thought she was fucking _them_ tonight.

She could hear the sound of footsteps running behind her, and then suddenly Feuilly was at her side. "Azelma, slow down," he ordered.

"Fuck off," she shot back, and sped up.

"I'm not going to –"

"Fuck off," she repeated.

"Look, you might not like it but – " Feuilly began, but she came to a halt and rounded on him. Well, rounded on him as much as she _could_; he towered over her. To her credit, he did stagger back a little, as if surprised by the aggression that was in her movement.

"Are you deaf, or something?" she demanded. "I told you to fuck off!"

He looked at her with pale, unimpressed eyes, and she could see his hands wriggling inside the pockets of his jacket, like he was playing with the lining of them. "You might not like it," he said, slowly, "But you can't go storming off like that by yourself."

"And why not?" she challenged. "I know the area."

"You're hurt," he said. "And it's late. And you have nowhere to go." He shrugged. "It just seems like you could use a friend right now, that's all. Look, we can get a taxi, and you can stay at mine tonight."

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "What?" she said, taking half a step backwards. "Thanks and all, but I barely know you."

He removed his hands from his pocket and held them out in front of him, palms facing outwards and long fingers spread wide. He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just trying to help," he said.

"Yeah, well." One of her hands ghosted up her arm in a tentative attempt to warm up the icy skin. His eyes followed the movement, and he began to shrug out of his jacket. "I don't need your jacket," she spat.

He paused in taking it off, rolling his eyes. "This isn't me trying to be a gentleman, you're obviously freezing," he said, and then carried on removing it. He held it out to her. "Azelma," he said, more of a murmur than anything else.

She reached out and snatched it from him. It was leather, but lined with a smooth, satiny fabric; it completely swamped her, the sleeves falling down over her hands and it fell almost to her knees. It was warm, though, and she was secretly grateful for it. She wrapped it tighter around herself, folding her arms over her chest once more.

Feuilly was now left in a dark blue check shirt, short sleeved, and he was already shivering. "Thanks," she muttered, avoiding his eyes. She cleared her throat. "Do you live far from here?"

"Not really, but like I said, we could get a taxi," he said. He paused. "I can pay."

She nodded, giving in. What harm could it do? She didn't have a key to Éponine's, had no money, and like he said, she didn't really have anywhere else she could go. "Fine," she said, looking down at the tarmac. But then she looked up, narrowing her eyes and glaring. "But no funny business," she warned, jabbing a finger at him.

He rolled his eyes. "You have absolutely no worries on that count," he said. "I have a girlfriend, and I'm fairly certain Éponine would skin me alive."

Azelma snorted. She wasn't so sure, after Éponine's display from a few minutes ago. _Maybe you shouldn't have come_, she'd said, which was pretty fucking funny for somebody who had put so much pressure on her _to_ show up in the first place.

They began walking again, carrying on walking until they hit the main road, where Feuilly flagged down a taxi. Feuilly opened the back door for her to crawl inside, and then got in after her.

Azelma let her head rest against the window, feeling the vibrations resonate through her head as Feuilly made small talk with the driver of the taxi. In the time it took them to reach Feuilly's apartment, the two men had discussed the driver's evening, and Feuilly had answered questions about his job and their night out. She learned that the driver had three daughters, someone had almost been sick in his lap, and that he was going on holiday to Spain in three weeks time.

By the time they had reached Feuilly's flat, which was above a grocery shop, Azelma's stomach was an absolute mess, twisting and turning. She felt like she was going to throw up, and clambering out onto the pavement she had to stop and lean against the wall, breathing the icy air into her lungs in an effort to settle her stomach.

Feuilly's flat turned out to be smaller than both Éponine's and Combeferre's, and was more cramped and more cluttered. The walls were painted green, the sofa looked a little worse for wear, and the carpet was almost worn through in a few places. Azelma was grateful to get inside, though, because it was warm and smelled nice and she could finally take off Feuilly's jacket.

She draped it over the edge of the tired sofa. Feuilly flicked one of the light switches, flooding the room with a weak yellow light.

"We need to clean your head up," Feuilly said. "Did you hit it on the ground?"

"No, I think it caught on one of her rings," Azelma said, her mind flashing back to the gaudy, chunky creations that had been on that girl's fingers. She vaguely recognised the girl, knew she had hung around with Montparnasse or Brujon at some point, but she couldn't quite place her name.

"Well, sit down, I'll go and get some things," Feuilly said. He disappeared through one of the three doors leading off the main room, and she lowered herself onto the sofa. The cushions felt thin and uncomfortable. She hoped Feuilly's generosity might spread to allowing her to have his bed for the night.

He came back carrying a brown bottle with a colourful label, and a plastic bag filled with cotton buds. He sat beside her on the sofa, unscrewed the cap on the bottle and tipped some greenish yellow liquid into the cap. He balanced the cap on his knee. The liquid smelt strong, acrid, catching on the back of her throat and making her stomach turn again. She wrinkled her nose as Feuilly reached into the bag, the plastic rustling around his hand as he fished out one of the cotton buds. He pressed it into the cap and allowed the cotton to soak up some of the disinfectant, and then he gently brushed it over the cut on her head.

She hissed as the disinfectant touched the cut and the sting spread through her head.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"'S fine," she said, gritting her teeth.

"I'm sure Éponine won't be mad at you for too long," Feuilly said, dabbing at her head again.

She grunted. "I don't really care."

"That's a lie," he said, softly. "How are you getting on with living with her?"

"It's okay," Azelma said.

"Have you got a job?" he asked, pulling his hand away from her face.

"Huh?"

"A job. I've noticed Éponine's been paying for everything." His eyebrows flicked upwards pointedly.

"No, I haven't got a job," she said.

"Maybe you should get one," he suggested. "It would certainly –"

"Who are you to tell me to _get a job_?" Azelma said, frowning even though it made the cut on her forehead hurt even more. It was throbbing uncomfortably now that the disinfectant had been applied.

"Just a suggestion," Feuilly said, his tone mild. "I bet it isn't easy for Éponine to be supporting the two of you."

"I've never had a job," Azelma grumbled. "I wouldn't know where to start. Would I even be able to get one? I've no qualifications or experience."

"You don't know if you don't try," he said, getting a fresh piece of wool and dipping it in the disinfectant again. "I've always worked," he added. "As soon as I was able to. All the way through uni. Still work a couple of jobs now."

"Good for you," Azelma muttered.

"Yes, it is," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm trained as a graphic designer, but the company I work for is only small. Grantaire – you know Grantaire, right? – he's a senior designer, he gets paid more, so I work for –"

"No offence, but I really don't care," Azelma interrupted.

He put aside the cotton wool and then picked up the cap and bottle and walked over to the kitchen sink. When he returned, he had no bottle. He sat next to her once more. "I get it, you know," he said. "The world kicks you down, so you lash out back. I used to feel like that. But it's not a good way to live. You can't be rude to people when they're trying to help, or one day they'll stop trying to help and you'll find yourself alone."

She scowled at him. "I don't get it," she said.

"Don't get what?" He cocked his head to one side, resembling something like a cocker spaniel. "I think what I said was fairly self-explanatory."

"I meant _you_," she said. "This." She gestured between them, at the cotton buds sitting on the sofa cushions. "What do you get out of it?"

"I don't get anything out of it," he said. "But like I said, I was like you, once, and I might still _be_ like you if I hadn't wised up and realised it'd get me nowhere."

He scooped up the cotton balls in his large hand, and shrugged. "Just a bit of advice. Do with it what you want. Now, there's a bed in the spare room but it isn't made. Is that a problem?"

"I've been sleeping on a sofa for the past couple of weeks," Azelma said dryly. "It's no problem."

"I'll just go and –" He stood up. "It's a bit of a mess, you see."

She followed him through to a small, cramped room with cobwebs in the corners and boxes covering the floor and clothes heaped on the bed. She watched as he swept the clothes off the bed and onto the floor with his arm, using his foot to nudge the clothes further away from the bed. The mattress was bare and there was one flat looking pillow at one end.

"I have some blankets _somewhere_ in here," he murmured under his breath, staring around the room and planting his hands on his hips. He moved towards one of the boxes, opening it and rooting around inside. He dragged out a large fleece blanket, wrinkled all over. "Will this do? Sorry I don't have –"

"Don't apologise, you've nothing to apologise for, this is...great," she said, taking the blanket off him. "Thanks."

He was stood in the doorway now. "The bathroom is just through there," he said, pointing towards one of the doors. "I'm not in work tomorrow, so, I should be around when you wake up."

She nodded, not really sure how to respond to that. "I do mean it," she said, as he turned to leave. "Thank you."

"I know," he said. "Goodnight, Azelma."

"'Night."

OOO

Azelma was woken the next message by a text message. She'd slept in her underwear, and her phone was still stuffed down the front of her bra, exactly where she'd put it yesterday evening. Feuilly's spare room only had one window which was small and completely bare, so the room felt so bright when she opened her eyes that it made her head hurt. She groaned, pressing her face into her pillow and then digging her hand into her bra to fish out her phone.

It was from Montparnasse. He and Brujon had been texting her every so often, but it hadn't been the flood it had been when she'd first come to Éponine.

Something in her – maybe it was the resentment still coiled tight in her stomach – made her unlock the phone and actually read the text for once.

_This ignoring game is getting pretty old. Meet us at Mabeuf Park, or we'll be coming to get you. You have an hour._

She rolled her eyes, and sat up. Montparnasse had always been one for a bit of drama. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, shoving the wrinkled fleece blanket away from where it was tangled around her calves. She fished her shorts and vest top from where they were lying in a heap on top of Feuilly's clothes on the floor, and quickly put them on. Running her fingers through her hair, she stepped into her borrowed flats and scooped her phone up. She stared at the bed for a few moments, pondering what to do, and eventually settled on (badly) folding up the blanket and leaving it on the pillow.

Slipping her phone back into her bra, she crept out into the front room. It turned out she needn't have crept; Feuilly was stood yawning in the kitchen, wearing boxer shorts and a ratty T-shirt.

"'Morning," he said. "Did you sleep all right?"

She nodded.

"Would you like some coffee? Or tea? I have both." He wrinkled his nose, his fingers running through his tangle of hair.

"Tea is fine," she said, edging towards the bathroom. "Two sugars, please. Lots of milk."

When she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, the tea was waiting on the coffee table in a mug with Frank Sinatra's face on the side. He'd been very generous with both milk and sugar, so it was lukewarm and very, very, very sweet. She knocked it back within minutes.

"I text Éponine to let her know where you are," he said.

"Right." Azelma put the mug in the kitchen.

"She says she hopes you're okay." His fingers were drumming on the edge of his own mug, a bright green one. He was drinking coffee, because she could smell it. She'd always hated the smell of coffee. "We're all going to the Musain later," he continued. "But I think Éponine will be hoping you go back to hers first."

"I still don't really feel like seeing her," Azelma said, hovering now between the kitchenette and the front door.

"You can't avoid her forever," Feuilly said with a shrug, his fingers wrapping around the handle of his mug. He lifted it halfway, and stared at her over the top of it. "Are you all right? You seem nervous."

"I'm just a bit..." She flapped her hands about. "I need a walk. Clear my head."

He nodded slowly, like he understood, and sipped from his coffee.

"So I'm going to go," she said, taking a step towards the door. "Um...Thanks. For everything."

"It's no problem," he said. "You're always welcome to come to me if you need help with anything, you know that, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I do. Thanks."

"I'll see you later," he said, lowering himself onto his sofa.

"See you."

The air outside was still very cold, and a part of her wondered whether or not she could go back inside and ask to borrow a jacket off Feuilly. But time was ticking and it was a fairly long walk to Mabeuf Park, and she didn't want to risk Montparnasse just showing up at Éponine's apartment or something like that.

By the time she reached the park, she felt absolutely frozen and her teeth were almost chattering. Everyone was staring at her. She'd looked in the mirror before she'd left Feuilly's and she could see why; the cut on her forehead looked angry, there was a small bruise on her jaw and scrapes on her arms and legs and scratches on her chest and neck.

Mabeuf Park wasn't very big, but there were quite a few people there already, families and groups of teenagers and the odd dog.

She sat on a picnic table, drawing her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. How long were they going to make her wait, she thought to herself; they could at least be on time, considering their threat.

Suddenly a very warm hoodie was being draped around her shoulders. It smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and faintly of sweat, and she recognised the faded blue as being Brujon's favourite hoodie.

"You got a death wish?" Brujon was saying, pulling himself up so he sat on the table beside her. She'd never thought she'd be grateful to see Brujon of all people, but God, she was. He was smiling at her, warmly, his long sleeved white T-shirt straining over his broad shoulders. His nose looked like it had been broken again, and as his smile grew wider she saw he was now missing one of his lower teeth. A bruise around his eye was obviously in the process of healing.

"You've been in a fight again," she said.

"Yep," he said. "So have you."

"It wasn't a proper fight," she said, with a shrug.

"Still, it's nice to see some things haven't changed," he said with a shrug.

Movement caught her eye, and Montparnasse stepped into her line of vision. He was a less welcome sight; tall to Brujon's short, slender to Brujon's brawn. Cold eyes like a shark's, sharp cheekbones, carefully messy black hair. Today he was wearing a mustard yellow blazer over a black shirt, grey jeans so tight they looked as if they'd been painted on, and _cowboy boots_, of all things. Somehow, he looked as if he'd walked straight out of a fashion magazine, even if on closer inspection the blazer had been repaired a few times and the boots looked as if they'd seen better days.

He was smiling, too, but there was no warmth to it. "When I gave you that phone," he said, "I meant for you to use it. Not ignore every attempt we make to contact you."

"I can't exactly talk to you, now, can I?" she retorted.

Montparnasse stepped forward, and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her head upwards. Brujon's hand shot out and wrapped around Montparnasse's wrist, a clear warning.

"You can't just walk away," Montparnasse said, voice very quiet and very gentle.

Azelma kicked out with one of her legs. Éponine's shoe flung off with the movement but she caught Montparnasse in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. "Back the fuck off," she snarled, jumping down off the table to retrieve her shoe. Once it was back on her foot she rounded him. "I've warned you about what'd happen if you ever laid a hand on me," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. "I am _not_ my sister."

He caught her hand, pressed it against his chest. "You might end up the way she nearly went, if you're not careful," he warned. "I helped her out then as a favour, and your father nearly killed me for it. I can't get you out of this mess, so you have to –"

She tore her hand out of his, stepping backwards. Brujon was there, with his hoodie again; it must have fallen off as she got up. He put it back around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off, handed it to him. "I'm leaving," she said. "I have places to be," she added, thinking of Éponine.

"'Zelma, wait," Brujon said, placing his hands on her shoulders. "He didn't mean –"

"He's right, I wasn't being a dick for the sake of being a dick," Montparnasse interrupted. "I'm trying to _help_."

"I don't need your help," Azelma muttered, stubbornly.

"Sure you don't," Montparnasse said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, fuck off," she said. "I'm going, now. Brujon, it was nice to see you."

She turned around and began to walk.

"You know what you need to do," Montparnasse called after her.

She flipped him the finger and carried on walking.


End file.
